


What Happens In Vegas

by the_rando_fando



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Past Abuse, Rare Pair, Slurs, drug references, in my own little AU, lots of hockey references so buckle up, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7042639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rando_fando/pseuds/the_rando_fando
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the NHL Awards week and there are a ton of events going on. Tater expects to have a good time, but not this good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tater

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a fic so please go easy on my (and sorry if it's terrible). All of these will be posted on my tumblr as well @the-rando-fando. Constructive criticism is welcome!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 4/12/17!
> 
> This is my first time writing a fic so please go easy on my (and sorry if it's terrible). All of these will be posted on my tumblr as well @the-rando-fando. Constructive criticism is welcome!

The week leading to the NHL awards were always an exciting time, and this year it would be even more event-packed. For the past couple of years, the League had decided to do a large charity event the couple of days before the awards ceremony in Las Vegas. A city was chosen each year and they would host a Legends hockey game between some of the retired vets, skills competitions in which the players had to dress in ridiculous costumes, an exhibition game between two teams (usually rivals), and a huge charity gala for the teams and some invited guests.

Tater loved the skills competition. It was rare that the opportunity arose for him to see some of the most serious and tough-as-nails athletes dress up in tutus and oversized glasses goofing around and making fools of themselves. And of course, with his sense of humor and competitive nature, the Russian-native refused to be outdone (last year he had won the slapshot competition while wearing a cow suit). But for as much as Tater enjoyed the skills competition, he dreaded the gala. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the delicious and very expensive food, or dressing up in his black suit and purple tie. It was just that, simply put, he was not a graceful man. He lived in constant fear that his large frame would somehow wipe out an entire ice sculpture or his strong and calloused hands would shatter the delicate crystalline champagne flute accidentally. After all it wouldn’t be the first time. Tater had too guilty of a conscious to make an excuse not to attend, and even if he hadn’t it wouldn’t have mattered this year - the Falconers were chosen to play the exhibition game in Vegas against the Aces.

The Falconers were set up in one of the nicest hotels in Vegas and they had made quite a scene when the team returned from the skills competition. Among the women in expensive furs and men in Armani suits are now professional athletes dressed in cutoffs, mascot costumes, face paint and other ridiculous accessories. Tater steps out of the elevator, unlocks the door to the room he is sharing with his road roomie, Jack, and flops on his bed.

“You make good shots, Zimmboni! We make best relay team in League,” Tater calls with a laugh as Jack changes out of his lumberjack costume and fake beard.

“Yeah, we really did dominate, eh? Good job on the slapshot challenge, too.” Jack replies.

Tater groans, stands up, and pulls off the dress he's been wearing.  

 “Yeah, and would have won, too, if not for small blonde man that is Captain of Aces. For such small man he has great power!”

Jack doesn’t respond to this. Tater glances over at his teammate and frowns when he sees how tense Jack is.

“You two have rivalry, eh? I hear men on television speak of it, this is true?”

“It’s not a rivalry really. Parse and I… We have history together. Long story.” Jack sighs.

Tater pulls on a pair of gym shorts and walks back to his bed. He sits down, looks at Jack and pats the spot next to him.

“You are bothered by him. This I can tell. Sit, tell Alexei your woes.”

Jack really loved how caring Tater was. He wanted to act like an older brother and was constantly trying to get Jack to talk about his feelings. “Is not good to keep things bottled up,” he had said, “Bad for soul and bad for mind. I can keep secret better than anyone.” Jack was very skeptical initially, but Tater had proven himself multiple times. Jack wasn’t quite ready to tell him about Bittle, but he really hoped that in time he could.

He sighs and sits next to the large Russian, who in turn plops a long arm over his shoulders, making him feel like a child.

“We played in the Quebec majors together. We were really good friends…best friends. But then…” Jack trails off and looks away.

“You two had messy falling out,” Tater finishes for him.

“We weren’t good for each other. We were at first but things…changed. And then the draft came and -” Jack cuts himself off, looking upset.

“You no need to explain to me,” Tater gives a reassuring smile. He never would pry, and he can tell when Jack doesn’t want to talk about something. This was clearly one of those times. The only thing he needed to know was that the two youngsters had bad blood between them.

“So things are now tense and you no like talking to him, I get. I make sure he no talk to you. I be Zimmboni Body Guard!” Tater laughs and hopes he sounds reassuring, but Jack’s expression makes him believe otherwise.

Game day arrives in a flash and before he knows it Tater is on the ice for warm ups. He gets in his zone as TNT by AC/DC plays on the Expedia Arena speakers and fires about a dozen shots into the empty net. As he turns to loop back to center ice his brown eyes catch those that are steel blue. It couldn’t have lasted more than half of a second, but something about those eyes suck the Russian in. Kent Parson turns to finish his warm-ups on the opposite side of the ice as Tater glides towards the bench. The buzzer sounds and after the national anthem is sung the Providence Falconers and the Las Vegas Aces face off.

From the start it’s a physical game. Lots of checks, lots of roughing and lots of penalties. Tater has his hands full he wouldn’t consider himself a goon, but if he sees one of his line mates getting roughed up he has no problem giving it back to the Aces. Such was the case when he noticed the Aces captain again. After a shift change, Tater gets in position for the faceoff across from Jack and Parson. Even before the ref has gotten into position Parson is bumping shoulders with Jack. Even stranger than this was the professional hockey robot that was Jack Zimmermann is letting this get to him, his usual focused expression contorted into one of discomfort and irritation. Once the puck drops and Guy win the faceoff, Parson takes a cheap shot and checks Jack hard into the boards when he gained control of the puck. This is the last straw. Tater races over, chasing Parson as he skates into the Falconer’s territory. Just as Parson is pulling his stick back to pass the puck to his forward, Tater checks him cleanly into the boards and Jack gains control of the puck again.

“Watch yourself, Captain,” Tater murmurs to Parson as he skates away, but Parson is up in an instant and getting in Tater’s face.

“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?” Parson spats as an icing penalty is called, halting the game.

“Just friendly advice, don’t want to mess with Falcs. Could hurt pretty blond head,” replies Tater with a smile on his face but ice in his eyes.

The game resumes and in the third period the Falcs are up 1-0, with lots of penalty minutes racked up. The Falcs have a powerplay for the last 3 minutes and Tater is on the ice playing his heart out. He passes the puck to Thirdy, who has a beautiful opportunity to score, but is checked - hard - by a flying black jersey and is knocked to the ice with a hand on his face. Play stops and a medic rushes to the seasoned player. Tater freezes, his blood going cold then suddenly boils. Whoever did this is going to regret it. The large Russian turns to the Aces player that checked his teammate and immediately shoves him.

“ _Fucking cheap shot!”_ he shouts at the player, not realizing who it is.

“Guess I should have been the one warning you, huh?” the player responds and turns. Kent _Fucking_ Parson. This guy is really getting on Tater’s nerves. Parson skates over to stand face to face (or rather face to chest) with Tater, staring up at the giant. He reaches out to grab his Falcs jersey and the fight is on. The two of them wrestle for a moment, both holding each other by the collar at arm’s length when Tater gets the first hit in. Parson takes the hits well, and manages to rip Tater’s helmet off, delivering a solid hook to his cheek. Tater then rips Kent’s helmet off and winds up to give him a hell of a shiner when the referee pulls the two of them apart and escorts them off the ice. With less than their penalty times left in the third the two players return to their respective locker rooms to clean up. Even with losing Tater the Falcs pull off a nice win.

_____________________________________________________________________________

“Oh man, that looks worse than it did in the locker room. Are you sure you’re alright to go to the Gala?”

Back in their room Jack is examining the damage Kent’s fist has done to Tater. A brilliant purple blotch has grown in size just below his left eye and a deep cut on the bridge of his large nose takes away what little class Tater’s new suit brings him, but he isn’t concerned. The large man simply shrugs and smiles down at his teammate. “Is good conversation starter.”

Anybody who’s anybody in the hockey world is at the Bellagio grand ballroom that night for the Gala. Retired hockey players, coaches, old GM’s, wives, girlfriends, supermodels, team owners, everyone’s here and dressed to the nines. The commissioner of the NHL and several higher-ups from Toronto say a few words, then dinner is on. It’s absolutely delicious, whatever it is. Tater had asked Jack what it was, and after getting what he assumed was a French response he decided to just shut up and eat it. Miraculously he even manages to not make a fool of himself and finishes several cranberry vodkas without staining his white shirt. It’s a nice night and he’s beginning to relax. Coffee and dessert is served next while some music begins to play. Several of the players and their significant others head to the large dance floor and start swaying to the music, liquor dictating the majority of their moves. The night goes on, dull conversations with benefactors drag on, and Alexei is beginning to grow restless. It’s getting a bit later and many of the older and stuffier attendees have left, so the lights begin to dim a little and the music picks up.

Tater elbows Jack, drawing his attention away from his phone and up at him.

“Come on, Zimmboni, let’s see those moves! Your girl can be away from texting you for a song or two, yes?”

Not waiting for a response, Tater grabs Jack’s wrist and pulls him to the dance floor. For as well as Tater plays hockey, that’s exactly how badly he dances, and thirty seconds into a song he has Jack cracking up. But it’s fun, and Tater is enjoying himself, finally. The two dance for a few more songs until Jack’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at it with concern.

“I’m sorry, Tater, but I have to take this. It’s, uh, my girl…” Jack looks at him apologetically, but Tater simply waves a hand dismissively and keeps dancing. Jack smiles and rushes off.

Tater dances for a few more songs by himself until he decides that he needs another drink. He waits in line behind Sidney Crosby and some supermodel he brought with him and tries not to stare as he continuously squeezes her ass. Instead he tries to distract himself by listening to the song playing - something by the Black-Eyed Peas - and tapping his foot along to the beat. He’s so focused on being distracted that he doesn’t even notice when Kent Parson comes up behind him, or when he stands next to him, or when it’s their turn to order drinks. Kent turns to Tater and, with an eyebrow raised, asks, “Are you just gonna stand there or can I get you an apology drink?” This snaps him back to reality and without thinking orders another cranberry vodka. Kent smirks up at him, orders himself a double whisky, and pays for both drinks. Tater attempts to protest, but Kent shuts him down.

“Listen, man, I was being a jackass on the ice today, let’s just call it even,” he says flatly.

“I was not being too kind, either, all part of game,” Tater replies evenly, but Kent seems unmoved.

The bartender hands them their drinks and the two begin to walk towards the sea of people dancing.

“I really got a good shot in, huh?” Kent says after a while, stopping and looking up at the bruises on the much taller man. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Is no worry, looks like I got my shots in,” Tater grins, spotting a dark blob on Kent’s jaw.

The captain grins and rubs his chin. “Well if you were as good at slapshots as you are at being a goddamn goon maybe you would’ve won yesterday.”

“At least I can score during game.”

“It was an off night. Besides, it’s hard to shoot with your big Russian nose blocking the goal.”

Tater looks at Kent and they both erupt in laughter, almost spilling their drinks. Tater slings a long arm over the smaller man and pulls him close to his side.

“You are okay, Captain. We will get along just fine off ice.”

“Don’t think for a second this means we’re bros, Mashkov. I’ll still kick your ass when playoffs come around.”

Tater is about to retort, but just as he is he spots Jack across the room. He looks uncomfortable and Tater assumes it’s because he’s trying to avoid Parson, so to make sure Kent doesn’t see him Tater downs his drink, sets his glass down on the nearest table, and guides Kent to the dance floor.

“Come, Captain. You have good moves on ice, let’s see how you do on dance floor.”

Kent looks confused for a second, but quickly composes himself with his signature smirk.

“Alright, man, but I’m warning you, I do a mean Charleston.”

“What is Charleston?”

“Never mind.”

The two athletes dance together for a long time, Tater flailing his arms and Kent trying to stifle his laughter, even after Tater sees Jack leaving and throwing him a wave goodbye. Kent is fun to dance with, he’s much better than Tater and has great rhythm, but it doesn’t make Tater feel self-conscious like it normally would. He’s just enjoying himself. A slower song comes on and many of the remaining guests are starting to leave for the night. Tater is about to part with Kent when he grabs the Russian’s wrist.

“So I’m guessing by the way you dance you’ve never been to a real club, especially not here in Vegas, right?”

Tater nods. “Many of the Falcons are older and do not like going out late. We have very early practices, too.”

“Well I know none of the teams have practice before the awards ceremony tomorrow, and you are in desperate need of some dance coaching. I’m taking you out.”

Tater is about to say something in protest but Kent holds his hand up. “No need to thank me, I know how amazingly generous this is and what good I’m doing for the community - for the world, really - but if you really feel the need you can buy me a drink at the club.”

Tater looks at the small blond for a second, not able to process that he’s basically being forced to go dancing with the captain of his team’s rival, but Kent does have a point - there are no practices tomorrow and the awards aren’t until the evening. Tater laughs his deep, echoing laugh again.

“I like you, Captain! I will let you coach me.”

“Please, call me Parse, everyone else does.”

“And you call me Tater.”

At this Kent turns and gives the brunette man a strange look. “ _Tater?_ ”

“Yes! Like tiny potatoes! Is my nickname from team!”

Kent smiles and shakes his head. “And you willingly go by this? Alright, whatever. I’ve heard worse, it’s better than Chowder.”

And with that the two of them leave the Bellagio, hail a cab, and are off to some strange club in the middle of Vegas that Tater didn’t know existed until a few moments ago.


	2. Mashkov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 4/12/17!
> 
> Now it's Kent's turn to fall for a straight boy, or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to progressively get more explicit from here, sorry it's just been fluff so far. In terms of the storyline taking place, I know the NHL awards are after the end of the season, but for now let's just pretend they aren't, and let's pretend that a super swanky hotel/apartment complex for rich athletes is right off the strip, okay? Good.

Parse calls a car from the Ace’s private service and within a few minutes he and Tater are climbing into the back seat of some luxury sport car and racing down the strip. For as many times as Tater has played in Las Vegas, he has never been down the strip, so the majority of the car ride consists of him staring wide-eyed out the window and asking Parse every few seconds what each building is. After a few minutes, Parse begins laughing and Tater turns to him.

“You really need to come here and spend a week sometime. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that’s never heard of the Golden Nugget after visiting Vegas - how many times? Like fifty? - yeah I gotta give you the _real_ Vegas experience one of these days, man.”

Kent is smiling at him in a way that might be sincere, but it also might be mocking, Tater can’t tell. He decides to take the high road and assume he’s being sincere. “That would be fun trip! Maybe after the Cup when we both have free time.”

“Yeah. I usually visit family once the season ends, but I can put that off. You have any travel plans in the off-season? Visit whatever God-forsaken country of ice you’re from?”

“Ah, no. I am American now, I have no wishes of ever returning to home country,” Tater says. He must have said this more seriously than he had intended because when he glances at Parse there’s a confused look on his face. Tater automatically slaps a smile on his face and slings an arm over the smaller man. “But is no worries! Makes it easier to travel around the States in off-season! So what is club like you are taking me to?”

Parse takes a moment to recover his typical cockiness, but as soon as he does he shoots Tater his signature devilish grin.

“Something tells me you’re gonna like it. Great security so we don’t have to worry about the paps, great music and even better booze. You strike me as a guy that can handle his alcohol.”

Parse eyes the Russian up and down, slowly, and Tater laughs.

“I am so big it takes lots of vodka to do anything to me, be warned, Parse. I no want you going broke trying to show me good time.”

“Being the captain of such an amazing team definitely helps the bank account. It’s amazing what winning a Stanley Cup will do for you. Oh, sorry, guess you wouldn’t know about that.”

“You chirp so much for such a small man. You are like those tiny dogs that always bark. Chechowah? Like the Taco Bell dog?”

“Chihuahua,” Parse corrects him with a mock glare.

It doesn’t take them long to reach the club. The driver pulls to the curb in front of a large building designed to look like a tiki, the front doors are nestled inside the tiki’s mouth and the long red carpet outside looks like its tongue. Tater is excited. He thanks the driver and follows Parse out of the car and inside. The two large security guards smile and open the door for them, instantly recognizing Parse and not even bothering to check I. D’s. The inside of the club was just as tropical as the outside - tikis line the walls, hostesses in grass skirts and leis saunter around with drinks in coconuts, the bar is disguised as a grass hut with bartenders in floral shirts. It was very nice, but not exactly the type of place Tater imagined Kent Parson frequenting.

Parse leads Tater to a small booth in the corner, across from the dance floor where upbeat music was pulsing and lights were flashing.

“So what do you think?” Parse asks him once the two were settled.

“Amazing! I have never seen anything like this, and it smells so sweet in here! What is that?”

“Coconut and pineapple, they really try to sell the Hawaiian theme. It’s a little kitschy but the drinks here are awesome. Speaking of which, what do you want? And you aren’t allowed to get vodka,” Parse adds, reading Tater’s mind. The Russian sits silent for a moment, trying to think of another order when Parse asks if he has ever had a fishbowl. Tater admits that he has not and Parse rushes off to order two, informing him that “if you like coconut and pineapple, you’re gonna fucking love this.”

Tater sits back, takes off his suit jacket and watches Parse stride up to the bar. This place is nice, Tater really didn’t expect to enjoy a club and was fully prepared to feign enjoyment for the rest of the night. He’s very relieved that he doesn’t have to do this now. Even hanging out with Kent Parson, a man he fully expected to hate, has been surprisingly easy and natural, and Tater has really been enjoying himself.

The large Russian doesn’t have time to think about the situation any deeper, Parse comes back with two large drinks, each a vibrant blue color with several fruit slices floating on the top and mini umbrellas hanging off the side.

“Cheers,” Parse says and hands Tater his drink. Tater leans in and takes a sip. It’s so fruity and refreshing, completely unlike any drink the Russian typically buys, and he can’t help but let out a moan of enjoyment.

 “This is amazing!” Tater groans and proceeds to take several large gulps of the cocktail. Parse starts to laugh and Tater thinks he can make out a deep red blush on his face, but it’s difficult to tell in the dim light.

“Jesus, Tater, you need to go clean yourself up after that? Shit,” he huffs while running a hair through his golden locks, “well I’m glad you like it. Careful, though, they’re a Hell of a lot stronger than they taste, trust me on that one.”

“You know from experience, Parse?”

“I do. I had two of those in one night once and the next morning I woke up half way to San Diego in nothing but my boxers and hat.”

Tater laughs and Parse smiles softly at him. The two drink their obnoxiously large drinks and talk about anything and everything. Tater learns that Parse is originally from New York, his parents were divorced when he was in high school, and he has a fluffy Ragdoll cat named Kit Purrson. Tater thinks the name is ridiculous and it earns Parse a large amount of chirping, but he has to admit that it’s an adorable cat. He even pulls out his phone and follows Kit on Instagram and Twitter. Tater tells Parse that he moved to the US when he was 19 and learned English from watching Disney movies (Tarzan is by far his favorite). He owns a St. Bernard named Borscht and is a pretty good cook, but because of his diet plan he often makes large meals and just gives them to his neighbors in Providence. When the drinks are nearly gone and the two have a pretty good buzz going, Parse finally brings up what Tater had hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“So how was it playing Jack Zimmermann’s body guard tonight?” Parse says bluntly, not making eye contact with Tater as he picks out a pineapple chunk and eats it.

“I was not bodyguard, I protect all my teammates on ice -”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it, Mashkov. I meant at the Gala.”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Tater lies.

Parson sighs and looks at the larger man, some emotion Tater can’t place flickering in the now green eyes. “I’m not some monster, you know. Yeah, I’m a prick, but it was a two-way street. I don’t know what he told you or if you guys have history or what, but, just - like don’t hold it against me, okay?”

Tater has absolutely no clue what Parse is talking about, but assuming the majority of this is the alcohol talking, he agrees, causing a smile of relief to spread across the blonde’s face. A new song comes on that Tater recognizes and he begins bobbing his head to the beat. This causes Kent’s grin to shift from ease to determination, and he stands, grabs Tater’s hand, and yanks him to the dance floor.

“I promised you that I’d show you the right way to dance, didn’t I?” Parse muses at Tater, looking up at him with a devilish smirk.

“Yes, and I am quite interested to see how you dance, Parse,” Tater chirps back.

Parse says something, but the music is too loud, and Tater has to ask him to repeat himself. Parse stands up on his tiptoes, wraps his arms around Tater’s neck, puts his lips to his ear, and hums, “My friends call me Kent, but my _good_ friends call me Kenny. And I’m getting the feeling that we’re gonna be _very good friends_ , don’t you think, Alexei?”

Tater isn’t quite sure how to take the physical contact, but as a man that makes friends by hugging others with his extremely long arms, it doesn’t strike him as anything other than friendly, so he responds, “I think so, too, Kenny. I enjoy being with you.”

By that, Tater means he enjoys going to clubs and drinking with Kent. He enjoys being friends with and civil towards the Aces captain. Maybe they can grab lunch or coffee the next time they play each other, like he would with Evgeni Malkin or Jonathan Toews. He’s certain that this is how Kent receives the statement, and the smile he gives Tater as he steps away from him is just friendly. So he thinks.

The two begin dancing to the overly-loud music and Tater is having a great time, but something feels…different. Back at the Gala Tater had been making a fool of himself and having a good time with Parse - and he still was - but there was something more to it now. It almost felt like there was a charge in the air. Maybe because of the lights, maybe because of the volume, or the sweet smell of coconuts and pineapple in the air and its sweet taste still on Tater’s lips. Or maybe it was because there was much less space between him and the Aces captain now, the way Kent looks up at him from time to time holds something in it, the light touches he gives the Russian now feel like electricity on his skin. At one point Kent excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and comes back with his shirt partially unbuttoned to show off his toned chest, and holding the light green tie he had previously been wearing. Tater gives him a questioning look, and Parse replies with, “Don’t give me that look, I didn’t do anything in there. It’s just gotten way too hot in here,” and winks. Tater has to agree with him, and taking off his tie (which has been choking him for the past two songs) would be nice, so he moves to loosen it and place it with his jacket. Before he can, however, Kent grabs his hands and says, “Here, lemme help you with that, big guy,” and slowly undoes his purple tie, keeping eye contact the entire time.

Parse and Tater return to the dance floor and lose themselves in the music again. Tater’s buzz is still going strong, and he’s having a great time. Parse really is a great dancer, too. The way his whole body moves with the rhythm of the music, his hips gently pushing against Tater’s every now and then, the pink flush of his cheeks and the light sweat on his chest gleaming in the light. Tater stops himself from thinking any further, now is not the time to start noticing how good Kent looks, and the strange feeling in Tater’s chest. It has to be the alcohol.

The song they’re dancing to ends and the next one is something Tater has never heard before and doesn’t particularly like. Kent picks up on this and leans in to him again.

“This song blows, how’s about you and me go back to my place. I’m sure you’ll like it,” he says in a slow, drawn out kind of way. Without thinking, Tater agrees and before he knows it, the two of them are already in another luxury car and speeding off to Kent’s apartment. As soon as they enter the car, however, Kent gets a call from one of his teammates and asks if Tater minds if he takes this. Tater, of course, doesn’t, and takes the opportunity to look at his phone. He has a few social media notifications and a text from Jack. He opens the text and reads it, smiling. Jack had texted him, apologizing for ditching him at the Gala and thanking him for having his back. Jack also said to “be careful with Parse, things can get crazy with him.” Tater doesn’t know what that means, and is too drunk to text back, so he sends back a “:)” and locks his phone.

Kent’s apartment isn’t that far from the club they were in, and they arrive before Kent has hung up the phone. Apparently one of his teammates was drunk and decided to call him, and Parse wanted to make sure he was okay. Tater thinks this is very sweet as he follows Kent into the fancy lobby of the building. Parse lives on the top floor in a very expensive suite, but the elevator ride takes no time at all. Tater follows Parse down the hall and into the amazing home. Everything inside reflects Kent’s personality - sleek, stylish, modern, and very expensive - almost the exact opposite of Tater’s home. Kent offers him a seat on his sleek black leather couch and says he’ll be back in a moment, and to make himself comfortable.

The couch is much cozier than it looks, and Tater is almost completely relaxed when a small cat comes sauntering in and jumps up on his lap. Small animals are typically afraid of the Russian giant, so this takes Tater by surprise. The cat purrs loudly and rubs against Tater’s hand as he pets her head and back.

“Well, looks like somebody made a friend.”

Tater looks up and is surprised to see that Kent has changed out of his expensive suit and has come back in nothing but a loose pair of gym shorts, smelling like freshly sprayed cologne. Kit Purrson jumps off Tater at his surprised jolt and runs off.

“You look comfy,” Tater says, feeling that strange tightness in his chest again as Kent strides over and takes a seat next to Tater, close enough that their legs are touching.

“No sense in staying in that hot suit, now is there?” Kent asks as he leans in close to Tater, plucking at the buttons on his shirt. This has officially crossed onto something deeper than friend territory, and Tater would have said something, too, if Kent Parson wasn’t already straddling his hips and passionately kissing him right now.


	3. Parse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 4/12/17!!!
> 
> This is Part 1 from Kent's perspective, so there's lots of swearing and lots of jackassery, buckle up.

Well, this week was going to suck. Kent could really give two shits about the NHL  Awards Week, he even enjoyed himself last year. It wasn’t the awards or the events specifically that had him in such a pissy mood. As much as he really hated to admit it, it was Jack Zimmermann that was under his skin.

Kent will be the first to admit that things did not go how he wanted them to the night he made a surprise appearance at Zimm’s school. When he had gotten the private tweet from one of Zimm’s teammates inviting him over, Kent thought it would be a great opportunity to talk to Jack after all this time. He hadn’t seen him in - Christ, how long had it been? - too long, and there were too many things that needed to be said. Reading the paper and watching Sports Center only gave him so much information, and Kent desperately needed to know where Jack would be once he graduated. Maybe there was still hope, maybe they could patch things up, start new, they were both older and Kent had matured since the Q, maybe...

Well, Kent had managed to fuck that up, too. He had made a jackass of himself, he so desperately wanted Jack back that when he was rejected, he snapped and said things he didn’t mean. Any strand of friendship left - strand of anything left - was cut, and there was nothing he could do about it now. Sure Kent was pissed. He was pissed for a long time after that, but at himself. And just when he was starting to recover and devise another plan to talk to Jack, he made a huge mistake and decided to creep on one of the SMH player’s Twitter.

He didn’t know who the Hell this Eric Bittle kid was, but whoever he was, it was painfully obvious that he wanted Jack as badly as Kent once had. Things were only made worse when he posted pictures of Jack visiting him on his break, wearing the same puppy-love expression anyone but Kent would have quickly dismissed. But Kent knew better, and it killed him. Seeing Jack so happy with someone else, especially with someone so much better for him, fucking killed him.

So he really wasn’t to blame for being so irritable the week of the awards. Hell, anyone that had just had their heart broken - again - and then would be playing against their ex all week would be in a bad mood, right? And Kent was proud of himself, he had been pretty civil during the skills competition. Sure it was because he really didn’t have to be anywhere near Zimms or his team, but whatever.

Okay, maybe Kent was a little riled up the day of the game, he was willing to admit that. In hindsight, it probably hadn’t been his best idea to get onto Twitter beforehand and read all of the lovesick Tweets Bittle had posted about his super-secret boyfriend that people had to be dumb not to realize who it was. But whatever, it was time to focus on the game, nothing could be done about that now.

Locker room. Pep talk. Coach’s speech. Warm-ups. Kent had tried to stay as focused as possible, thank God that over the years he had become an expert at shutting his brain off, even if it did get him into trouble sometimes. Game time. Grab a puck. Skate. Shoot at the empty goal. Loop around. He’d done this a thousand times. Don’t look over at the Falconers warming up. Stay in the zone. Don’t do it.

Too late. Thank God it hadn’t been Zimm’s eyes that met Kent’s, but the ones that did were almost as bad. Fuck those eyes were gorgeous. And they were brown, not hazel or the blue he usually fell for, but plain, boring, standard brown. How did such an ordinary color manage to be so amazing? The face the eyes were on wasn’t half bad, either, but it was hard to tell with the visor blocking Kent from getting a good look. It was a good thing the Aces’ coach called Kent over, otherwise he probably would have just stared at the opposing player like a moron.

Kent clearly wasn’t on his game tonight, it showed by the way he and his team were playing, so of course they needed to amp things up by playing extra physically. It fucking figures that for the next faceoff in the Falconers’ territory he was matched up with Zimms, exactly who he’d been trying to avoid. To make matters worse those gorgeous brown eyes were directly across from him, so Kent’s natural response was to shut off his brain again. Unfortunately, this had turned out to be one of the times it got him into trouble, and without even realizing it he had checked Zimms into the boards that really should have called a penalty. It wasn’t called, though, and he had the puck now. It was just him and the goalie, a beautiful top shelf shot would zip past him and the game would be tied...

If it hadn’t been for that big Russian bastard.

Kent hadn’t realized just how big the guy was until he was getting checking into the boards. He was well over six-foot, and just seemed to tower over Kent, who had to crane his neck to glare at his opponent. He recognized the guy from interviews and those stupid videos the Falcs were constantly posting, his name was Alexei Mashkov and always seemed to be doing something with Jack on social media. So naturally when he muttered that Kent better watch himself it made his temper flare.

“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?!” he had snapped, and Mashkov’s response only reinforced the knot in Kent’s stomach.

 _Jesus, so this guy has something going on with Jack, too??_ Kent thought, but shook the idea. The guy was clearly just a goon that was protecting his teammates, but the vibe that he was specifically protecting Jack didn’t go away the entire game. For as badly as Kent wanted to clear his goddamn head again and forget about Jack and the guys he may or may not have fucked besides him, it wasn’t working, so he compensated the only way he knew how - by checking the shit out of anybody that got near him when he was on the ice.

In all fairness, Kent hadn’t meant to hurt one of the old guys on the Falcs team, and he actually did feel a little bad when the medics were called on the ice, but this wasn’t basketball - people really got hurt sometimes. All part of the game. Fights were also part of the game, and thanks to Mashkov it resulted in Kent racking up a penalty for the rest of the period.

Walking into the locker room, Kent punched and dented his locker - again - and sat down, furious with himself. He was pissed he let himself get so worked up, pissed that the Aces were about to lose, pissed he was bound to look jacked up for the Gala that night, and pissed that Jack might have had something with Mashkov. Wait... he meant he was pissed Mashkov might have had something with Jack. Right...?

“Shit!” Kent moaned and put his head in his hands.

___________________________________________________________________________

He’d gotten a hell of a screaming from Coach once the game ended, and Kent just needed a drink. The first thing he had done as soon as he got home was pick up Kit Purrson, give her a kiss on the head, and poured himself a Jack and Coke, ignoring the fact that it was probably entirely too early for one. He grabbed the glass and sat on his couch with his eyes closed, enjoying Kit’s purrs being the only sound in the apartment.

He’d finally lost it, he was fully convinced that this was his lowest low. After nearly five years - six? whatever - he was still brokenhearted of Jack Zimmermann. No....that wasn’t it. This realization had caused Kent’s eyes to snap open in shock. He wasn’t upset that he didn’t have Jack, he was upset that he didn’t have someone. He was jealous of Eric Bittle for having Jack, but also for Jack having Bittle. They had each other and were disgustingly happy about that. Kent was lonely and miserable. Sure, Kent could pretty much have any man or woman he wanted at the snap of his fingers, but that was just sex. His one night stands - and he’d had plenty of those - were emotionless, detached, just satisfying a need and holding no fulfillment. If he was being completely honest, he usually felt like shit afterwards and in the end he knew that if he needed someone to talk to they would look at him like he had three heads. What Kent needed was to be in a relationship, and with a guy.

This made him bark a laugh to himself, scaring Kit off his lap. Kent Parson in a gay relationship, the tabloids would go fucking nuts. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he had hooked up with his share of guys, and some of his teammates knew he wasn’t just bi, but his PR manager had insisted that the NHL wasn’t ready to have its first gay player, let alone the captain of a Stanley Cup winning team. So every so often he would pretend to date some poor girl just to make himself look good, then break up with her a few months later, or make out with some random girl at a club he knew reporters would be at. At this point it was simply part of his job. But not anymore. Kent was done. He was going to find himself a suitable guy, and he was going to do it tonight. He didn’t care if he had to go to every club in Vegas.

Kent typically enjoyed dressing up and going to fancy benefits like the Gala, he was great at schmoozing the old rich guys and charming their wives. That night, for some reason, these rich bastards were really getting under his skin, and he was secretly thankful they couldn’t read his thoughts, otherwise these NHL charities might never see a dime ever again. After a 20 minute conversation with some jackass from UPMC Pittsburgh, Kent managed to excuse himself and head straight for the bar. He needed a stiff drink after that guy.

Just as he was about to take his place in line, Kent noticed Mashkov standing in front of him, looking awkward and out of place. Upon further inspection Kent saw that he was trying to ignore the severe PDA going on in front of him, and Kent had to stifle his laughter. This guy wasn’t like most hockey players, and something about him reminded Kent of how Zimms used to act back when they played together.

Something tightened in Kent’s gut just then and he pushed Jack out of his mind. He really did feel bad about being a dick to Maskov on the ice - it wasn’t his fault and Kent had no evidence that he and Jack had anything. Plus the guy was pretty cute. There was something about guys that looked like they could rip him in half that always got to Kent, not to mention the accent...

Taking a deep breath, Kent approached Mashkov and attempted to make conversation with him, but it was clear the Russian was far too invested in looking oblivious to Sidney Crosby and his new toy. Fucking adorable.

When it was finally their turn, the bartender had asked what they wanted and Mashkov was still in La-La Land. It was tough, but Kent managed to slap on his most apathetic expression and offer to buy the giant’s drink. After some slight back and forth he had managed to pay for Mashkov and was walking towards the dancefloor when Kent had finally managed to get a good look at the taller man.

Damn, he was cute. He was still so tall even off his skates, with long arms and long legs in an expensive Armani suit and purple tie that brought out those inexplicably gorgeous eyes of his. Kent noticed that his eyes always seemed to smile, even when he wasn’t, and the soft tousle of brown hair framed his face in a soft and welcoming way. Something about this guy made Kent feel vulnerable and at ease. He hated it and loved it all at once.

Realizing he was staring at Mashkov, he decided to comment on the bruises he’d somehow managed to give him despite their height difference.

“Is no worry, looks like I got my shots in.” God damn that accent was cute, and that little sideways grin -

All Kent  could do was laugh and nervously rub his chin. Well, that and be sarcastic. If Kent wasn’t attracted to Mashkov strictly based on his looks, the fact that he could banter sealed the deal. After saying something witty that probably sounded dumb about beating the Falcs in the playoffs, Kent suddenly comes to his senses. What the fuck is he doing? He’s hitting on a straight guy. From the Falconers. That’s great friends with Jack. Has he completely lost it?

Kent was about to make his leave and go find one of his teammates to hang out with when one of Mashkov’s long arms snatches him into a sideways hug, pulling him into a solid wall of muscle.

“You are okay, Captain. We will get along just fine off ice.”

Kent’s stomach had done a summersault at that point, and for what felt like an eternity Kent’s mind wouldn’t function. The only thing that registered was how _fucking solid his body was Jesus Christ he could destroy him_ – but the moment passed and Kent had to think of a chirp to save face.

“Don’t think for a second this means we’re bros, Mashkov. I’ll still kick your ass when playoffs come around.”

Kent was silently thinking that he’d love to do something _else_ to Mashkov’s ass when he saw the Russian pound his drink, set it on the table, and steer him towards the dancefloor.

“Come, Captain. You have good moves on ice, let’s see how you do on dance floor.”

 He had no clue what was going on, but before he knew it Kent was dancing with a near-complete stranger and having _fun_ for once. Everything was going great, or at least it was until he sees Mashkov wave to someone from the dancefloor. When Kent turned around to see who he was waving to, his stomach hit the floor, realization flooding him _. Mashkov was keeping Kent away from Jack all day_. That hurt. Christ, Jack had probably told him all about how terrible Kent was and how he destroyed their relationship. Fuck. In that instant of pain Kent concocted a plan that definitely made the rest of the night interesting - if there was even the slightest chance Mashkov was into guys, Kent was going to show him that he was the best and make him forget all about Jack Fucking Zimmermann.

Now he was on his A game - laughing with Mashkov, swaying his hips, being charming and trying to keep him interested. It was working great, too, until a slow song came on and the Russian stops dancing. Kent couldn’t let him get away that easy, so he did the first thing that came to his mind.

Kent grabbed Mashkov’s large wrist, ignored the butterflies in his stomach, and batted his eyes.

“So I’m guessing by the way you dance you’ve never been to a real club, especially not here in Vegas, right?”

He nodded, mentioning that his team was made up of a bunch of lame old guys, so Kent pressed on.

“Well I know none of the teams have practice before the awards ceremony tomorrow, and you are in _desperate_ need of some dance coaching. I’m taking you out.”

Mashkov - or as he actually preferred to be called, Tater - agreed, and Kent ushered him out of the hotel and into one of the Aces’ service cars.

Phase One: Keep Mashkov Interested was a success, or at least it was in Kent’s mind - he had managed to get him all to himself and away from Jack. Now it was time for Phase Two: Figure Out His Sexual Identity. Okay, in hindsight this plan had absolutely no finesse and probably wasn’t going to prove anything, but Kent was desperate and running out of ideas. He would later feel like an idiot about this plan, but for tonight... well alcohol helped a lot of things. So Kent’s new plan was to take him to Oahu, a private gay club Kent went to more than his team or publicist would find acceptable, but this place had hot guys, killer drinks, and top-notch security. The perfect place for two professional hockey players to grind on each other and not be noticed. There Kent would pay close attention to Mashkov’s reaction to the place. If he checked out any of the guys there, really got into the dancing, or something like that Kent would take it as a green light. If he checked out the waitresses dressed as hula dancers in skimpy bikinis...well Kent hoped that wouldn’t happen.

It became clear very early on that Tater had never been to Vegas - _real_ Vegas - before, and his reactions to the Strip were almost as precious as Kit. Their conversation was light and easy, except for something Mashkov said when Kent asked where he’s from, so Kent made a mental note to avoid that topic and answer his question about the club they’re going to. Kent made sure to not mention his admittedly flawed plan, and Mashkov seemed satisfied with his answer. In no time at all, they arrived at the club.

It’s funny, going to Oahu seems like an eternity from where they are now, in Kent’s apartment, but that's what happens in Vegas.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Kent's perspective, so the writing style is a bit different. He's kind of an ass, but he has good intentions, bless his heart.


	4. Kent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 4/12/17!!!!
> 
> Part II from Kent's perspective. Things are really heating up between Tater and Parse. Well, at least as far as Kent can tell...

Holy shit, Tater was tall. Kent hadn’t realized exactly how tall he was until they were standing side-by-side on the red carpet in front of Oahu. He barely reached the Russian’s shoulder, and even though Tater was still wearing his suit jacket, Kent could make out just how strong and muscular his arms were. He wondered what it would be like to be wrapped up in those arms all night...

Kent shook his head quickly, not letting himself get too wrapped up in his fantasies, or at least not yet. It was then that Kent realized that he was feeling...nervous? Anxious? Whatever it was, he had never felt it with any of his previous one-night stands, and it made him feel almost relieved. He really liked Tater, and he really didn’t want to fuck this up like he typically did with guys he liked. He was definitely going to need a lot more alcohol for this.

The Aces’ captain lead his rival through the large front doors and silently thanked the Gods that the security guards - Andre and Tito, both of which knew Kent well and his frequency of bringing his fuck-buddies to this club - didn’t comment on his date or mention anything hinting at their familiarity with the star athlete. The familiar scent of coconut and pineapple filled Kent’s lungs as he watched Tater - god he hated that name - gawk at the club. He was fucking adorable. Abruptly  Kent realized that the larger man might have never been to Hawaii, or even known what it was like there, and he silently gloated over the possibility of introducing him to this. By his expression, Tater seemed to like it, so Kent led him to a private booth in the corner that overlooked the dancefloor. Kent was relieved that it was crowded for a Friday night, meaning that there was even less of a chance of them being noticed by anyone.

“So what do you think?” Kent asked as Tater was watching several people dancing.

“Amazing! I have never seen anything like this, and it smells so sweet in here! What is that?”

“Coconut and pineapple, they really try to sell the Hawaiian theme. It’s a little kitschy but the drinks here are awesome. Speaking of which, what do you want? And you aren’t allowed to get vodka,” Kent added. He wasn’t entirely sure this bar even had vodka, just tropical themed drinks with lots of rum and Blue Curacao. This had stumped the Russian, so Kent tried to help him out.

“Have you ever had a fishbowl?”

“Ah, no. Is it good?”

“One of my personal faves. Plus I think it’s the only drink here that could quench your thirst.”

 _And maybe later you can quench my thirst, big boy_ , Kenny had thought and was instantly embarrassed of himself. He didn’t even know if Tater was into him yet, he needed to stop thinking shit like that. Before he could say anything stupid out loud, Kent mentioned something about it having pineapple and coconut and rushed off to order the drinks.

“Well, well, well. Mr. Kent Parson is gracing us with his presence yet again.”

Kent smiled as he approached Robert, an older man that bartended most weekends here and that Kent had come to know fairly well.

“Hey, Rob. Been busy tonight?”

“Typical Friday. There’s some drag convention in town this weekend so it’s gonna get crazy tomorrow.” The bartender shrugged. “So what can I get ya?”

“Two fishbowls, please,” Kent said and smiled as Robert raised an eyebrow and leaned around Kent to try to spot his date.

“Don’t bother, I brought someone from out of town, no way you know him.”

“Ooooh,” Robert hummed as he went about making the drinks. “It wouldn’t happen to be that big brunette that’s checking out your ass, would it?”

Kent’s eyes widened in shock, but he quickly recovered and gave his signature grin to Robert. “If you mean the guy sitting in the corner booth, then yes.”

“Kudos! I wouldn’t mind having a drink with him,” Rob laughed as he handed Kent the two obnoxiously large drinks. Kent paid for them and Rob gave him a wink.

“Have fuuuun,” he sang and Kent just shook his head and left.

The blonde returned to their booth and handed Alexei his drink, hoping his face wasn’t too flushed. Tater thanked him and took a sip of the cocktail, but Kent was not prepared for his response. The most pornogrphic moan Kent’s ever heard, so loud that he was shocked the entire club didn’t hear, escaped from Tater’s lips. It was a good thing he was sitting down and it was dark in there, otherwise Kent would have looked like a horny teenager, which he did not need right now. He silently hoped he would get the chance to get the larger man to moan like that again, and this thought was much harder to push away, but he managed.

“This is amazing!” Tater groaned, his voice deep and rough. _Fuck._

“Jesus, Tater, you need to go clean yourself up after that?” Kent chirped, praying that his voice wouldn’t shake. “Shit, well I’m glad you like it. Careful, though, they’re a Hell of a lot stronger than they taste, trust me on that one.”

“You know from experience, Parse?”

“I do. I had two of those in one night once and the next morning I woke up half way to San Diego in nothing but my boxers and hat.”

This made the Brunette man laugh, a sound that instantly caused Kent’s chest to swell. All he could do was smile at him and drink his cocktail.

“So, where are you originally from?” Tater asked after a long sip of his drink.

“A small town in New York, started playing hockey when I was around nine.”

“Is young,” the Russian said, and before Kent could even stop himself he was spilling his guts to a guy that was basically a complete stranger.

“Yeah, I started playing when my parents were first having problems. I kinda had some anger issues about the whole thing and my mom thought it’d be good for me to be on a sports team. Football season was already over and I was too aggressive for basketball. I’ve played ever since then.”

“Your parents had problems?” Tater asked softly. Kent could tell that he wasn’t trying to pry and that he genuinely wanted to know about Kent’s life. Nobody had really ever taken the time to talk with Kent like this and be genuinely receptive. Well, not since...

“Yeah. My family was dysfunctional at best. Dad was an asshole, mom wasn’t much better. They got divorced when I was in high school and was probably the best thing that could have happened. My little sister and I lived with my mom - well, she still does I guess, she’s a freshman in college this year - and I haven’t talked to my dad in years. Mom’s much happier, though, and everything is just a lot better, ya know?”

Kent hadn’t expected Tater to know what he was talking about, the alcohol had really loosened his lips and he was just sort of talking for his own benefit, but the larger man smiled gently and nodded like he really did understand. Kent desperately wanted to ask about his life, but from the way he had somewhat snapped in the car he held his tongue.

“So you live alone now,” Tater said as Kent took a deep drink from his Fishbowl. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement, like Tater was piecing together bits of Kent’s life to get a whole picture.

“Well, not entirely, I have a cat and she keeps me company,” Kent said with a smile as he thought of his beloved Kit. Tater seemed very interested, asking what breed she was and how old she was, so Kent just couldn’t help himself. He whipped out his phone and pulled up Kit’s Instagram, gushing over his precious baby. For a brief moment he was worried he was being weird, and Tater’s chirps didn’t help, but after a while the Russian began gushing about his St. Bernard. It figured that such a big guy would own such a big dog, but Kent had to admit that the mutt was pretty cute.

Half way through his drink Kent finally had to ask about Mashkov’s roots. After all, he had been talking to himself all night and he really wanted to get to know Alexei better.

“So,” Kent started as Tater took a bite of his orange garnish, “I know you weren’t born in America and you don’t wanna talk about it, but you gotta give me something. Right now I’m kind of assuming you’re an ex-KGB agent that’s currently under witness protection because you killed some world leader.”

This elicited another boisterous laugh from Tater - thank god - along with a light smile. “Alright, Parse, what would you like to know?”

Kent shrugged, he hadn’t thought of anything specific, he just wanted something.

Tater chuckled at him and took another sip of his drink before starting. “Well, I was born in small village near Sochi, Russia and when I turn four I was moved to Moscow. I play for elite youth team until I was 19, then I move to America where I get drafted to Falconers. I have played for them ever since, and I love my team.”

Kent looked admiringly at the other man. “Wow, that must have been tough. I thought moving from New York to Nevada was far.”

Tater smiled and nodded. “It was difficult. And I had to learn English myself, I had no instruction.”

“Really?” Kent asked in disbelief. “Holy crap, man, how’d you learn? Like Rosetta Stone or something?”

“No, we have only televisions in Moscow, no computers, and were only allowed one movie each week. That was how I learn, I watch Disney movie over and over again.” He looked away with a shy smile and rubbed his neck.

“Which movie?” Kent prompted gently.

“The movie with man living in jungle, Tarzan?”

“Huh,” Kent said.

“What? You don’t like movie?”

“No! No I like it well enough, I just wouldn’t have guessed it for you.” Kent shrugged.

“Oh really? What do you think I would like, Mr. Disney Expert?” Tater teased and lightly shoved Kent’s shoulder.

“Don’t start with me, Mashkov. I could school you in Disney trivia if I wanted, but I don’t wanna embarrass you.” Kent gave a snarky smile and the two erupted into laughter.

It was so easy with Tater, it’s almost scary. Kent needed to keep reminding himself that he was on a mission. He can’t afford to fall for a straight guy. He can’t afford to fall for any guy, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself. Another heartbreak like the last one might just set him over the edge. And Mashkov is better than Jack, he makes Kent want to be happy and sincere. Maybe he’s matured, or maybe Jack _wasn’t_ good for him. Either way, now he was positive spiting Jack wasn’t the only reason he’s after Tater. But there was no way Kent had ended up where he was now, on Tater’s lap drunkenly trying to kiss him, without addressing whatever sick issues he still had with the Russian’s roadie buddy, and Kent was finally to the point that the alcohol was giving him courage.

Kent took another long drink from his cocktail as he realized just how drunk he had gotten over the course of the night. Tater was basically finished with his drink, too, so Kent assumed that they both were at the perfect level of drunk to discuss that blue-eyed asshole he once loved. He still hadn’t had quite the courage to meet those big brown eyes, but he had enough liquid courage to speak.

“So how was it playing Jack Zimmermann’s body guard tonight?” He had tried to act nonchalant but failed and ended up sounding pissy. He needed to get his chill back, so he tried to casually fish out a pineapple chunk and eat it smoothly. He felt like a complete dork.

“I was not bodyguard, I protect all my teammates on ice -” Tater had tried to say, but Kent called him on his bullshit. If he was going to lie to him he would have to do a better job. He had tried to lie again, but this attempt was even weaker than the first. Kent’s brain suddenly went into overdrive.

 _Fuck._ Those two had been a thing. Maybe they were still a thing? Maybe Jack fucked Tater on roadies and Bitty at home. Professional athletes did that shit all the time. So if Jack and Tater were together, why did this brown haired bastard agree to go out with him? Was this all some sort of huge ruse to keep Kent from Jack? If that was the case Jack must have told Tater some pretty fucked up things about him to make him this protective.

 _FUCK_. What if that was true? What if Mashkov thought Kent was literally the scum of the earth, and the only reason he took him out was for some sick joke or something? Okay, now Kent was exaggerating, and it must have been bad if even he picked up on it. But exaggerations aside, even on the slim chance that Tater and Jack were just bros, there was no doubt Jack had told him what a douche Kent was. And he was, he had to admit. But things were different now. _He_ was different now. But there was no way Tater would give Kent the chance to show him that. He was royally fucked.

Again the words came tumbling out before Kent could process what he was saying, so he probably ended up sounding like a moron.

“I’m not some monster, you know,” he heard himself say. “Yeah, I’m a prick, but it was a two-way street. I don’t know what he told you or if you guys have history or what, but, just - like don’t hold it against me, okay?”

Kent realized that he was almost glaring at Mashkov waiting for his response. When he heard his thick accent forming the words “I would never hold anything against you, Parse. We are friends now, yes? I like you and think you are great,” so sincerely he nearly passed out from relief and couldn’t stop the dumbass grin from spreading across his face. He still has a chance.

Just then the music had changed to a song Tater must have known, he was basically dancing in his seat. Time for Phase Three: Win Tater Over With Some Sexy Moves. After all, he had said he liked Kent, right? And he had been checking out Kent’s ass, according to Rob. That was a green light in Parse’s book!

Kent had been more determined than ever to show off his moves. In all honesty, he was really hoping he could channel his inner stripper and use Tater as his pole, but he wanted to see how things went first and possibly save that for later. He stood, grabbed Tater’s - fuck that was a dumb nickname, he was just gonna call him Alexei from now on - Alexei’s hand and hummed “I promised you that I’d show you the right way to dance, didn’t I?” as he dragged the larger man to the dancefloor.

“Yes, and I am quite interested to see how you dance, Parse,” he had flirted back, and it made Kent’s heart swell.

“Please, call me Kent, Alexei.”

Tater looked at him with a confused expression and held a hand up behind his ear, indicating he couldn’t hear. Kent grinned, deciding to take this opportunity to turn up the heat. He had to stand on his tiptoes just to reach the Russian’s ears, and damn if it didn’t turn Kent on even more. He slithered his arms around Tater’s neck, drew his lips nice and close to his ear, and purred seductively, “My friends call me Kent, but my _good_ friends call me Kenny. And I’m getting the feeling that we’re gonna be _very good friends_ , don’t you think, Alexei?”

Tater looked down at Kent and smiled softly at him.

“I think so, too, Kenny. I enjoy being with you.”

Those words had made Kent’s heart swell, as well as another area of his body. All bets were off, and Kent lost himself in the music and with Alexei. Their hands touched, bodies bumped, and their hips even grinded together a few times. Kent didn’t want to get too explicit on the dancefloor for fear of making Alexei uncomfortable - after all this was his first club and he might be shy - so Kent kept everything relatively PG. After a while Kent realized that he still had his tie on and it was suffocating him. Normally at these types of clubs he’d be half naked by now, like many of the other patrons, but he was strangely comfortable going slow and reserved with Tater. Well, as slow as Kent Parson could go. He excused himself from dancing and went to the bathroom, where he promptly took off his tie, splashed some water on his face, fixed his hair, and undid a few shirt buttons.

When he returned Tater had given him a weird look, and Kent instantly assumed he thought some funny business had gone down in the bathroom. He dismissed this with a flirty response and a wink. Tater had agreed that it was hot, too, and went to take off his tie. Kent was feeling ballsy, so he took it off for him as sexy as possible. He could definitely get used to this.

The two danced for what seemed like hours but in reality was probably only another hour or two. Some horrible techno song came on and Kent could tell Alexei wasn’t feeling it, so Kent took it as the perfect opportunity to get him back to his apartment.

The car ride passes in a blur. Kent had fully intended to start making out with Alexei the minute they got in the back seat, but thanks to fucking Schmidty - who was drunk calling him for the third time this month - that plan was ruined. He was just going to have to wait until they got to his place. Thank god it didn’t take too long to go up the elevator and get into his place, otherwise Kent probably would have jumped Alexei in the hall he was so worked up.

Kent offered Alexei his couch and said he’d be right back. Kit’s food bowl was empty, so he filled that, got her some new water, and went into his room to freshen up. He figured it would be a bit too presumptuous to go back in the living room naked, but he definitely needed to be wearing less clothing than what he was. The blonde captain decided gym shorts were a good middle ground, and after re-applying deodorant and body spray he sauntered back out to his guest.

He hadn’t expected to find Kit, who typically was a prima-donna and never let guests see - let alone touch - her, all snuggled up on Alexei’s lap and purring her little heart out. It. Was. _Adorable._ He needed to be making out with this guy right now.

And that’s exactly what he did. Kent Parson, NHL superstar and captain of the Stanley Cup winning team the Las Vegas Aces, sauntered over to Alexei Mashkov, possible ex-KGB agent-turned-relocated-hockey-player and one of the best players in the Eastern Conference, straddled his fucking hips, laced his fingers in his hair, and gave him one of the most passionate kisses of either of their lives. But what happened next neither of them had quite expected...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't expect this one to get so long, but Kent is kind of a windbag. I also didn't mean for this series to become so long, so thank you for sticking with it, I promise it'll start to pick up (It's gonna get gooooood).


	5. Alexei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 4/12/17!!!
> 
> Tater feels comfortable enough to open up about his past to Kent. Where will things go from here?

Tater’s mind goes completely blank. His body feels like lead. Even if his brain was functioning enough to move his body it probably wouldn’t have moved. His heart’s pounding in his ears and he’s pretty certain he isn’t breathing. But that’s the least of his problems right now. He’s more focused on Kent Parson sitting on his lap and planting sloppy kisses over his neck.

His head is still _very_ fuzzy from the alcohol, but these are the things that Tater is registering right now:

  1. He just spent a very nice evening with Kent Parson, Stanley Cup winner and captain of his rival team the Las Vegas Aces.
  2. Kent had invited Tater back to his apartment because he had said Tater would like it - and he did. It was very swanky.
  3. Kent had returned from his bedroom shirtless and was now kissing Tater.
  4. Something was stirring deep in Tater’s chest, but his brain wasn’t letting him register it.



Kent must have noticed Tater’s apprehension, after a moment the wet kisses stop and those deep gray eyes are taking him in. There’s something analytical in Kent’s face as he pulls away that lasts only a split second, but in that time he must have found what he was looking for. His face and eyes go blank, almost hollow, as he whispers “Oh…” more to himself than Tater. Something in Kent’s expression causes that ache to return to Tater’s chest, strong enough to feel uncomfortable as Kent quickly stands up.

“You…aren’t into this,” Kent states slowly, staring unblinkingly at the Russian sitting on his couch. Tater’s mind still isn’t working enough for words to form so he remains silent. Kent must take his silence the wrong way because he suddenly looks furious.

“ _You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me_ ,” he nearly shouts. “Seriously? After all that _bullshit_ tonight? Dancing and everything?” He begins laughing, a sound that chills Tater to his core.

"It all fucking makes sense now.” Kent turns a malicious grin to the Russian. "You were just fucking with me, right? You were trying to get back at me for all the shit that happened between me and Jack when we were dating, is that it? You were his fucking body guard all night and this was some fucked up plot to - I don’t fucking know - break my heart like I broke his? Is that it?” Kent was staring at Tater, clearly waiting for a response, but there were so many things Tater was trying to process. It takes him a moment, but Tater’s voice finally came back. He speaks slowly and deliberately.

“…you and Zimmboni had romantic relationship?”

Kent stares at him for a moment almost incredulously. “Wha - _yes_! Isn’t that what- I mean you had said earlier –”

Tater interrupts him, more focused on getting answers now that Kent’s rambling. "So that means…you like men."

Kent gives Tater another dumbfounded look. "Well considering I just spent the entire night at a gay bar with you trying to get in your pants and all the guys I’ve hooked up with I would fucking think so,” Kent bites back with sarcasm oozing at every word. The two sit in silence for a few moments until Tater finally speaks again.

"…Who knows?”

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"Who knows that you are attracted to men?"

Kent moves to sit back down, anger subsiding. He continues to keep eye contact with Tater throughout his answers. "I mean not a ton of people -"

"Your team?” Tater interrupts almost with a sense of urgency.

"Um, just a few. Smithy and Calvin. And Jack, obviously.” Kent’s voice has finally calmed, taking on a tone of suspicion rather than anger now.

"What about…your family?” Tater hears the pleading tone in his voice and knows that he must be confusing the hell out of Kent, but these are things he needs to know.

Kent lets out a huffy laugh and looks at the floor. "My sister knows, and so does my mom - well, I assume my mom knows. She walked in on me making out with a guy once so I would think she’d put it together. It was fucking mortifying,” Kent adds with a laugh. "My dad doesn’t, but I haven’t spoken to the asshole in like ten years so there’s a lot he doesn’t know about me, I wanna keep it that way.”

There’s another pause as Tater processes this. Kent looks over with scrutinizing eyes.

"What the fuck is this all about, Mashkov?” His words are gentle, but there’s pain behind them. He deserves an explanation at the very least. Tater sighs deeply, runs a hand through his hair and leans his forearms on his knees.

"Back in car, I say I never want to return to Russia. You remember this?” he asks, eyes glued to the floor. He can see Kent nod out of the corner of his eye. He squeezes his eyes shut, leans back, and lets the words flow from where they’ve been hidden for years.

“When I was very young, my father teach me how to skate. I love it and was very good, so when I turn three I join peewee league. I play very well and coaches notice. I was so good I get selected to go to special school in Moscow to get better. I have no choice in this. One day I am happy child with big family, the next I am taken from them and forced to live in big city boarding school with strangers. I was five years old.

"The school train professional athletes that will represent Russia in competition. There were many of us, but we were forbidden to socialize with anyone besides teammates. The coaches were cruel. They work us until we collapse. If you did your best it still was no good enough. If you lost game, the punishments were cruel. Once we lost important game and did not eat for days. We were beat. We were screamed at. It was hell.

"Our only joy came from our teammates. We were suffering but suffering together. If we win game we were allowed to watch one Disney video. We sit and laugh during movie together. We joke and play pranks. It was our only joy. When we grow older many boys talk about girls in the school, especially ballerinas. They talk about their tits and wanting to fuck them, but I had never wished that. I never notice girls maturing, I never stare at tits or think about fucking them, I never want even to kiss them.”

Tater leans forward again and grimaces, eyes glazing over.

"But I want to kiss linemate. His name was Petrov Vasiliev, he look sort of like you, Kent. I began having feelings for him when I was fifteen, and I still had feelings when I leave Russia, but he never knew. In Russia, is not acceptable to be gay. Is thought of as-"

Tater’s voice catches, like the words are caught in his throat. He can feel tears beginning to prick the corners of his eyes, but he presses on, still avoiding Kent’s gaze. "Is thought of as atrocity. Something sick, unnatural. Men who are open about this are treated as though they have mental illness. They are taken to hospitals, given shocks and medicines that change them. They are broken men when - if - they are released. They are lucky ones, some gay men simply disappear…

"Russia is old country with old ideas, people in power are not open-minded like here. This is why I leave. I could no longer live miserable life where I was treated like dog and hide my true self. I was living another man’s life, so I sneak out of country to live _my_ life. At first I was not allowed, coaches hide our passports so we can no leave, but I manage, and now I am proud American.”

Tater finally looks up at Kent. His emotions are easy to read on his face - shock, sympathy, pity, and something else all displayed openly. He isn’t even bothering to cover it up at this point - probably because he doesn’t realize he’s an open book right now, Tater reasons - and he likes being able to read the younger man. He continues.

“You see how terrible this is, yes? If you are taught something is wrong your entire life is hard to suddenly not believe it,” he says with a sigh. “I am gay, Kent. But I have never been with another man in any way. Is very hard for me to…accept myself, even if it is accepted by those around me. I want to move past this. I want happiness _so badly_ , but when you are called a monster enough you start to believe it…”

The tears finally break through and several silent drops run down Taters cheeks. He quickly raises his hand to wipe them away, cursing under his breath, when Kent’s thumb lightly brushes the water away. It surprises Tater, but he lets it happen. He also lets Kent rest a hand on his cheek and turn his head so he’s staring into those mysteriously colored eyes.

“I know a little something about that,” Kent replies with a sad smile. Tater realizes that he isn’t the only one that’s been through some hell in his life, and the thought of someone finally being able to relate to him is too much for Tater to handle. Tears well in his eyes again as he closes the distance between the two of them, lips crushing into Kent’s. He finally lets himself enjoy the kiss, and it’s the most amazing feeling in the world. His chest aches so intensely that it feels as though his heart will burst through at any moment and electricity has replaced the blood in his body. Kent’s lips are so soft against Tater’s somewhat chapped ones, sweet and wet and absolutely delicious.

Kent is clearly stunned for a moment at the sudden contact, but quickly recovers and kisses Tater back with equal intensity. It feels as though Tater has been wandering the desert for years and Kent’s kisses are water quenching his intense thirst. He needs Kent’s lips, he needs Kent’s hands running up his back and tangled in his hair. _He needs Kent_.

After a few minutes Kent breaks the kiss and gives Tater a strange look.

“What?” the large man asks.

“Was that your first kiss?”

“Uh, with man, yes?”

“No fucking way. You’re way too good of a kisser, I don’t believe you."

“I would not lie to you, Kenny.”

“I seem to recall someone lying back in the club about being Jack’s bodyguard.” Kent says this in a teasing tone, but it reminds Tater of something that had been weighing on his mind.

“You had said you and Jack dated. What happened?” As soon as he says these words he wishes he could take them back. There’s a pained look on Kent’s face, but as Tater starts to apologize the blonde waves a dismissive hand.

“Alexei, don’t worry about it. Christ, I just got your whole life story, so the least I can do is explain why I went so crazy earlier.”

Kent goes on to explain about he and Jack playing together in the QMJHL, how they started seeing each other, Jack’s overdose, the draft, EpiKegster, Bitty’s Twitter - everything. Tater is extremely surprised to find that Zimmboni’s ‘girl’ is actually Bitty, but because of how absolutely delicious the boy’s pies are he approves. He also finally understands why Kent was so aggressive in the exhibition game and apologizes for his reaction on the ice.

“So…” Tater says after a while, “Where do we go from this?”

“Well,” Kent says with a smile playing on his lips, “typically I’d continue making out with you and eventually lead you to my bedchamber to make sweet passionate love to you, but I’m thinking we should change that up.” He winks and Tater can feel a blush rising in his cheeks.

“I’m sorry I so new at this. You take lead and I can follow - “ Tater is cut off by Kent kissing him again, this time soft and sweetly. It leaves Tater breathless when Kent pulls away with a smug grin.

“I don’t want to rush this. I’ve fucked up too many things by just rushing in head first. I want to go at the pace you’re comfortable with, I know how nerve wracking this can be. But you have to do something for me,” Kent adds with a soft smile.

“Anything.”

Kent leans forward and gently taps Tater’s temple, prompting a smile from the brunette. “You have to promise me that you won’t ignore this guy up here and tell me what you’re thinking, if you’re uncomfortable or want to speed things up, okay?”

Tater is about to protest but Kent holds up a hand. “Don’t even try to deny it, Big Guy. I have a feeling we have opposite problems - I think too much and you ignore your thoughts when we’re upset.”

“I surprised, I no think you thought at all, Kenny,” Tater chirps with a soft grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, Al.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose to depict Russia similar to how it was during the 80's and 90's, and I know this may not be completely accurate, but let's just assume for the story's sake that it is. I did reference actual events that had happened to some hockey players during the 1980's (I'm finally putting my undergraduate degree in Sports Studies to good use!). If you want to learn more research Soviet hockey players in the 1980's and 1990's, it's really interesting!


End file.
